


Entropy

by Elynittria



Category: House
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-25
Updated: 2006-11-25
Packaged: 2017-10-05 05:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elynittria/pseuds/Elynittria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson attempts to deal with the events of "Whac-a-Mole"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Entropy

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Purridot and Daasgrrl for their insightful betas. I would have been lost without them.

Wilson wearily reached into his pocket for the hotel room key and opened the door, half-expecting to find the room trashed, courtesy of Tritter. The few belongings that marked the room as his were still where he had left them, however. _Guess he was too busy fucking up my life to bother with my stuff._

He moved over to the window, leaving behind a trail of water on the featureless carpet from his drenched clothing. Rain lashed against the pane, and nearly leafless tree branches tossed restlessly in the wind, creating a strobe effect as they moved in and out of the harsh beams of the streetlights. Wilson shivered, cold to his very core.

Somewhere out there, House was no doubt downing either Vicodin or alcohol to escape from reality. Or maybe he was listening to a vintage blues record at full volume so he could feel sorry for the loss of his sure-fire drug connection. He sure as hell wasn't feeling anything regarding his so-called friend. There had been no indication of concern or affection in House's eyes when he had briefly paused in front of the bus-stop bench—just cold emptiness.

It had been like looking into the fathomless depths of a polar sea.

Wilson turned away from the window, shoulders slumping as the anger that had sustained him throughout the hellish day abruptly vanished. There was no point in being angry at House. It wouldn't change matters. House would always and forever be House, an immutable fact of nature. He could no more have an effect on House than he could on the sun or stars. It was crazy to keep hoping otherwise.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. His shoes were soaked through, as was the rest of him, yet he couldn't summon up enough energy to remove his sodden garments. He shivered convulsively, arms tightening around himself in a futile attempt to stop the shaking.

There was nothing left to hold onto. His patients were gone, their files carefully updated and annotated before being dropped in the mail to various colleagues. His wives had been driven away by his inability to sustain meaningful relationships. Grace was dead, consumed by the inevitable progression of her cancer. And now his friendship with House was ended too, by his own choice. There would be no reconciliation. House would never apologize or offer any concrete indication that the friendship mattered to him, and he had nothing left to give.

_Things fall apart,_ he thought wryly. He certainly couldn't hold them together anymore.

He unconsciously rocked back and forth as he tried to control his shivering and get a grip on his wayward emotions. He needed to pull himself together if he was to have any hope of surviving this disaster. But he couldn't shake the memory of a single crimson taillight receding from his view before being swallowed by the undifferentiated light of the stream of traffic.

He squeezed his eyes shut, as if by so doing he could erase the image of House turning away from him to concentrate on the only thing that mattered to him—the puzzle on his whiteboard. _Oh poor you,_ the sarcastic voice in his head sneered. _Stop being such a drama queen. _

A stifled sound that might have been a giggle or a sob escaped from between his tightly compressed lips. House was so much a part of him that not even radical surgery could excise all his traces; the memories would remain to torment him forever. He didn't think he could face that future. Didn't really want to try.

He curled up into a tight ball on the bed, heedless of the mud on his shoes and the chill clamminess of his clothes. His body rocked gently as he let his mind drift, picturing himself on the bridge of a fast clipper ship, her sails snapping in the strong, clean wind.

He knew that if he looked down he would see the flotsam of his previous life and the circling silhouettes of sharks, so he stared resolutely ahead toward the horizon that was shimmering with infinite possibilities. Hours passed unheeded as he sailed on into uncharted waters, his body rocking with the motion of the tossing waves. He lost himself in the immensity of the sea and sky, which embraced and erased his frail individuality, making him an undifferentiated part of a greater whole, his heart finding solace at last.

A maid found him the next day—still, barely breathing. Her cries of alarm were but seagulls in the distance as he sailed on, eyes fixed on the horizon, adrift in the endless sea.


End file.
